


The First Noel

by intelcore



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, The Heroes of Olympus - Rick Riordan, The Trials of Apollo - Rick Riordan
Genre: Gen, short annual xmas oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:47:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21953872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intelcore/pseuds/intelcore
Summary: It’s Estelle’s first Christmas, and it’s Percy’s first Christmas that counts.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 73





	The First Noel

**Author's Note:**

> So apparently I’ve managed to churn out a Christmas fic every year since I started posting (as in, the past three years), a Drabble if nothing else, so here’s me neglecting all my other obligations to write a PJO fic in the year of our lord 2019! This year has been tremendously busy (and will be so till April 2020) but I can’t end this decade end without one final story for the series which has defined it for me. So, only tangentially related to Christmas, and super short, but still! It’s kind of rushed but it’s sweet (I hope!) and draws on more new year energy than anything, so enjoy!
> 
> As usual, I own nothing. All belongs to Rick Riordan.
> 
> Merry Christmas and a happy New Year!

Christmas had never been a big event in the Jackson household. Not really. Not bigger than most days.

The Blofis household (well, Blofis _and_ Jackson household) however? Paul had been a Catholic turned atheist turned vaguely theistic full stop over the course of his thirty-seven years and it _showed_. There was a Christmas tree and baubles hung around the house and a very ugly Santa cut-out. Paul’s mom sent home itchy sweaters and log cake. Percy had been gifted a pair of reindeer antlers as a (hopefully gag) gift. Paul had never quite reconciled with the idea of it, but with the new knowledge of the Greek world, he had struck a quiet truce with the existence of Christmas, if not the merit of it.

All of this to say that they’d played quite a few Christmas carols the lead up to Christmas. Mostly the ones about everybody having a good time this time of year, and some about how cold it got, but O Come All Ye Faithful has snuck in there for sheer vocal abilities of Mariah Carey.

Anyway, it had been _Percy’s_ idea to get a family photo. He’d never considered himself a person who was into recording every single milestone that presented itself to him. At most—pictures with Annabeth, with the Seven, with whichever campers he managed to pull into the frame before the click went off to commemorate ends of summers and ends of quests.  
He’d never felt too strongly about end of school year parties. Not really cared about graduations. His mortal friends would cry over each other at the end of each (different) school year and Percy would stand around awkwardly and make fake assurances that he would keep in touch.

Things had changed, however, when Estelle had come home. Percy had taken to documenting her milestones with the fervour of an archivist, or at the very least, a very excited historian. Baby’s first word. Baby’s first time crawling. Baby’s first Halloween. Baby’s first Thanksgiving.

Baby’s first Christmas.

Estelle yawned and shifted in Paul’s arms. The oversized Santa hat they’d pulled over her head slipped a bit. She stayed peacefully, blissfully, unbelievably asleep. 

“I feel like waking her up,” his mother said, looking a little defeated. A little too consumed with adoration.

“We _just_ got her to sleep,” Paul whispered. He looked aghast. They’d spent the better half of two hours taking turns rocking her to sleep.

“I know,” his mom whispered. “But she looks so cute in the reindeer onesie and I want to take a picture of her when she’s _awake_.”

Paul sighed. “You make compelling points.”

“Also compelling points,” Percy said. “Cranky babies do not allow for family photos. Or sleep.”

“Counter point,” his mom said, “She looks so cute when she is all mesmerised by the lights.”

“She looks cute all the time,” Percy said. “She looks cute snuggling up and chewing her thumb. I’d say the only time she doesn’t look cute is when she’s crying for the third straight hour and refusing to stop.”

“Okay,” Paul said. “Here’s the deal. We will not wake up Estelle. Waking up sleeping babies sounds unnecessarily like asking for trouble. But we will also not try very hard to _not_ wake up Estelle. Sounds fair?”

His mom sighed. She fixed up Estelle’s hat. “Alright.”

“Photo now?” Percy asked. 

“Of course, baby,” his mom scooted over to make space for him between her and Paul. Paul readjusted his hold on Estelle. Percy set the camera timer and dived to make it to the couch on time. 

He’d forgotten to switch off the flash. Estelle’s eyes blinked open the exact second the photo was taken. She began crying the exact second they unfroze. 

“Oh, well,” Paul said.

“Oh, my baby.” Sally took Estelle from Paul and hiked her over her hip. “My girl’s a bit cranky today, huh? Let’s go look at the snowfall. It’s so pretty out there.”

Paul got up too. “You know what? That sounds like a good idea. Let’s all take a walk. It isn’t too late yet.”

“I’ll get the stroller,” Percy volunteered. He checked the photo. Picture freaking perfect. Estelle looked spooked, but—as popular opinion suggested—cute. His mom was smiling wider than she ever did in photos. Paul had an arm sling around Percy’s shoulders. “Oh, this is going up on the mantle for sure.”

“We don’t have a mantle,” Paul said.

“Bookcase?” 

“That’ll be lovely,” Mom said. She kissed Percy on the cheek and disappeared to find coats and gloves for all of them. Paul went to check on the food. Percy set off in search of the stroller.

His mom found him in the nursery-cum-Paul’s office. Percy didn’t realise at first, too engaged in trying to retrieve the stroller, but then Mom walked up to him and simply pulled it in one deft stroke from between the umbrella stand and the shoe-case.

  
“This is nice isn’t it?” Sally said. She brushed back his hair. It had grown longer over the winter, dropping into his eyes and becoming more unruly than before. “First Christmas?”

Percy nodded in agreement. “Estelle’s not going to remember it, but it was perfect. Picture perfect.”

Mom smiled at the pun. “It was. But that wasn’t what I was talking about. This is—this is a good Christmas. You’re home.”

The _finally_ remained unspoken, but Percy heard it all the same.

He felt a lump rise in his throat.

His mom wrapped her arms around him, sensing this. She was good at it—sniffing out the storm before it hit. “Oh, it’s not _your_ fault, baby. The Greek world probably doesn’t care much about Christmas. We didn’t much either, really, but it’s nice to have you home when the lights are warm and the weather is cold and I make really good food.”

Percy laughed. “Yeah, you do.” He sighed. “I’m sorry things started settling down for you so late.”

“Like I said, don’t be. It’s not too late. It’s not your fault.”

“Cause and correlation.” 

“No, baby. None of these last few years were your fault,” Sally said. “And—you made it to eighteen Christmases. This is a start. We can make it eighteen more. And eighteen more after that. You can spend every one of those Christmases at home.”

Percy brought his arms up around his mother. “And New Years.”

“And birthdays.” Sally sighed. “And just the regular days too, alright?”

“Sounds good,” Percy promised. “Wow, things…things have changed so much right? And for the better, despite everything.”

“It has,” Mom said. “I’m glad I could give you that at least.”

Percy slung an arm around her. “You’ve given me way more, Mom.”

Sally laughed and kissed his cheek. “You’re sweet, baby. Now come on, let’s get going before Estelle falls asleep again.”

—————

Christmas had never been a big event in the Jackson household, even before the entire “Your father’s an Ancient Greek sea deity” reveal had reshaped Percy’s entire concept of religion and religious holidays. It had meant, at most, a break from whichever unwitting school had accepted him that year (before he inevitably got expelled the following year) and decorating a tiny tree that they had always found to have miraculously survived to see a new Christmas. A letter to Santa when he was still young and green. A delicious home-cooked meal. A day alone with his mother.

And then the summer of his twelfth year had hit. The summers had become longer then, fuller. The winters somewhat colder. Sharper. Shorter.

More urgent. More goodbyes, more quests, more war prep. The December Annabeth had been kidnapped. The winter of war councils. The holiday he’d helped Thalia and Nico look for the sword of Hades. The winter he’d missed, asleep in the Wolf House. 

The winter after the Giant War. Tartarus had haunted his dreams. The mythological world had been quiet, but skittishly so. The whispers of change, of fallen gods, of new dangers. A quiet, relieved Christmas. The Greek world did not count years in Christmases, and neither did the Jacksons, really, but—Percy hadn’t ever expected to reach the summer of his seventeenth year, let alone the winter of it.

Let alone the winter of his first year of adulthood.

Let alone the first winter of his sister’s life.

The Christmas of his eighteenth year felt less like a marker of an end. Less like a marker of another shaky, precarious end to a shaky, precarious year. More like a beginning. Something to look forward to year after year. Christmas trees. Letters to Santa. A delicious meal. A day to spend with his mother, his girlfriend, his stepdad, his baby sister. 

Young and green still. A year of sorrow and grief and loss that ended miraculously with a way forward. Percy had always kept hopes of reaching eighteen at arm’s length. The dreams that came with it a little farther. And now, after passing the threshold, it felt like a new goal could be imagined.

It would be less about surviving, Percy decided. More about living.


End file.
